


Watercolours

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:58:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson discovers the joys of painting, then wonders why Holmes is behaving so oddly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watercolours

“My dear Watson,” my good friend Sherlock Holmes had said to me in a confidential tone, one month previously, “I have a great deal of work to do at present, and you are most terribly underfoot. I wish that there was something you might do to assist me, but unfortunately there is not. My chemical researches and experiments can only be done by myself alone at present. Why do you not find a hobby which might occupy your mind and keep yourself from tangling around my coat tails?”

The words Holmes spoke, if unintentionally harsh, were true, of course. I had no current medical practice or patients; my only employment resulted from assisting my friend with such casework as and when I was required, and at present that was not at all. I needed something to do, else drive the both of us quite mad. A new hobby it must be, then.

For a day and a half I was a keen golfer. Too keen; for I lost every ball into water, dense undergrowth, the sands, and none were ever to be seen again. My war pension is small and not intended for half of it to be spent upon golf balls.

For three days I made a desultory attempt at photography. I struggled to create a sufficiently atmospheric darkroom within the confines of our bathroom, and Holmes complained most vociferously about the lines of prints dangling over the bath.

For one entire week I had an excellent experience with a pet goldfish. This might have continued indefinitely but for my friend sending the bowl flying fatally to the carpet with one poorly judged toss of an Encyclopaedia Britannica. He was most apologetic, but the damage had been done and Oscar was no more.

I had a far greater faith and enthusiasm for my most recent endeavour. I arrived home from my shopping trip in a state of great eagerness, with a large, heavy wooden box and a flat paper package tucked under one arm. Holmes glanced at me curiously upon my puffing entrance.

“Oh heaven help me,” said he, “you have found yourself another pastime.”

“Yes!” I wheezed brightly, “and I really do think that this one will be a success. It involves water, Holmes, but on a much smaller scale than a goldfish bowl, you will be pleased to learn.”

I placed the box down upon my writing desk, and sank with a sigh of relief into my chair. I deposited my parcel on the floor beside me. I looked back then to the mahogany box, undid the small catch upon the front of it, and pulled up the lid. Holmes was hovering behind my left shoulder as I pushed the top back as far as it would go.

“A paint box,” he said, dolorously. “I was not aware that you could paint, Watson.”

“I used to sketch when I was a young lad,” I replied, “and found a fair talent for it. I have not dabbled with watercolours before but I am sure that I will pick it up easily enough. It is a fine kit, is it not, Holmes?”

Holmes’s face was unreadable. “I am sure that it is,” he said. “I would beg you, however, not to paint any portrait of me, not in any way, shape or form. I will _not_ tolerate you tucked away in a far, dusty corner of the sitting-room daubing away with some lurid hue, which culminates in some monstrosity which you declare to be in my likeness.”

“I was thinking rather more of landscapes, Holmes,” I retorted hotly, “as opposed to exerting my limited skills upon your very dubious charms, so I really do not think you need to concern yourself.”

“Very good then,” said he, frowning, as he returned to his chemistry table. “Although I am not certain how spectacular a landscape you may produce merely by gazing out of our windows here at Baker Street.”

“I shall replicate from postcards, Holmes,” I replied. “They will be quite sufficient for me to practice with. I may venture further afield once the weather improves.”

I set about my box then. I filled up the glass water dish and set it in its nook. I ogled my porcelain paint pots, so beautifully displayed within the main body of the box, and fingered the smooth white ceramic of the palette. I picked out the paint brushes, varied in thickness and diameter, and the sketch pencils. I reached down to my paper parcel and removed the large pad on which I would be painting my small masterpieces. I was quite ready to begin.

To start with, I smeared a thin coating of water onto the top quarter of the paper. Then I prepared myself a light blue from the blue and white pots and splayed the flat brush into the blend.

“I am going to kill the white, Holmes,” I declared. My friend looked across at me in some small alarm.

“If you absolutely must,” said he.

I smattered my brush in a thick line across the paper, giving life to a splendidly blue sky. I added more smatters and strokes. My sky was now a little streaky. In consternation, I added more blue to my palette and sliced away again. Something was not quite right. I prepared some white paint and attempted a few puffy clouds as contrast. They bled into the blue and mutated rebelliously, despite my best efforts to contain them. Holmes stepped behind me once more to survey my progress.

“I think you may just have created a new art movement, Watson,” he said.

“Be quiet,” I hissed, “I am only just getting started. All watercolours are like this in their early stages.”

“Are you really quite sure of that?” Holmes asked doubtfully. He moved away, anxiously eyeing the carpet at my feet as I splashed and sprayed my colours onto paper and palette alike.

By the time I had moved onto the oak trees and the oval duck pond I was cursing openly and stabbing at the paper in the vilest of tempers. Very little seemed to be in proportion with anything else; the ducks were monstrously huge by comparison to the trees. With a defeated sigh I flung my brushes back into the water pot and slumped into my chair.

“This has not been an unprecedented success, Holmes,” I said, sadly.

“From tiny acorns do the mighty oaks grow, is that not how the saying goes, Watson?” said my friend, in an attempt to console me. I shrugged. My tiny acorn was a blurry mess. I wondered blindly if practice really would, on this occasion, make perfect, or whether I should be better off investing in a fresh supply of golf balls.

Two weeks later, to my absolute astonishment, I had improved beyond all measure. My blue skies now resembled skies; my trees burst forth in both branch and luxuriant leaf; my duck ponds sprouted happy, well proportioned ducks by the dozen. Holmes would occasionally poke his head around the corner of the paper to enquire as to my project for the day, and murmur his quiet approval. I think he was quite as surprised as I that I had found a fruitful hobby.

And it was then that I began to notice my friend’s increasingly odd behaviour. It began quite subtly, with Holmes entering the room and observing my busywork, only to throw himself into his armchair by the fireplace and strike an extravagant pose.

“Whatever is the matter, Holmes?” I asked, pausing in the middle of sketching my wooden stile.

“Nothing, Watson. Do continue with your sketch,” said he. He flung an arm behind his head and pointed his nose towards the mantel.

“Have you cricked your neck, Holmes?” I asked in concern.

Holmes tutted and twitched in irritation. “No, no, Watson, my neck is as it should be. For goodness sake, man!”

The following afternoon, I noticed the same anomaly. My friend stood by the window with a hand upon one hip, gazing up into the clouds with a mystical air of meditation.

“Is there a three-winged bird flying around outside, Holmes, or what has captured your attention so completely?”

“What? No! There is no bird. You are quite ridiculous, Watson.”

Holmes’s arrangements became ever more elaborate. He took to draping himself across the sofa while smoking a cigarette, and to leaning against the mantelpiece with one knee crooked and his chin in the air. He would hold such a pose for 20, perhaps 30 minutes, and then enquire in the most relaxed manner as to my inspirations for my next painting.

“I am very much enjoying painting my stile, Holmes,” said I, enthusiastically. “I am finding the grain of the wood most intricate and challenging.”

Holmes flounced away in an unfathomable fit of pique. I knew better by now than to enquire as to his ill temper. He would not have told me in any case.

I produced several more landscapes, each more detailed and beautiful than the last. Holmes took little interest now. In fact, they appeared to positively infuriate him. I could not for the life of me imagine why. They were doing no harm to him other than by their mere existence.

“Holmes,” said I, finally, after his most recent bout of disagreeable behaviour, “do you have a problem with my paintings?”

Holmes swivelled around from the window and looked at me with his mouth downturned.

“Are you only going to ever paint landscapes?” he asked, peevishly.

“Well, perhaps not, but I am enjoying them so well at present that I see no particular reason to stop. Might you have a better suggestion?”

Holmes mumbled something which I was unable to catch.

“I beg your pardon, my dear fellow?”

“ME, Watson, ME. Are you never going to paint a portrait of _me_?”

“But Holmes,” said I, bewildered, “you told me several weeks ago that you would really rather I did not attempt your likeness at all. Is that not correct?”

“Yes, yes,” he replied impatiently, “but that was before you were any good.”

“So what are you saying, Holmes?”

Holmes twisted his face in some small anguish. “That you are now much better and I would quite like it if you would care to paint my portrait.”

I chuckled. “I have already done so, Holmes, and quite without your knowledge, as your temper has been so testy of late. Here it is.”

And I produced a small watercolour from my folder, and handed it to my friend. It was a subtle half-profile, which caught the sheen of his black hair and the grey glint of his eyes to perfection. His expression in the painting was thoughtful and profound. Holmes studied it carefully for almost a minute without uttering a word. He eventually lifted his head and regarded me.

“It is extraordinary, my dear Watson,” he said, quite moved. “You have a marked talent. Thank you very much indeed. May I keep it?”

“Of course you may,” I replied, pleased. Holmes tucked the watercolour away delicately between the pages of a large volume upon his desk, and I would almost swear to seeing a small smile tease at the corners of his mouth. I did not comment, of course, for he would have denied it and stated that I was merely imagining things as usual.


End file.
